


Mourn The Years Before I Got Carried Away

by Tori_Scribbles



Series: I Wanna Get Better [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 03x05: A Life In The Day, Depression, Eliot Centric, Eliot Needs A Hug, Eliot and Quentin are Good Dads, Families of Choice, Family Fluff, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Queer Families, Slice of Life, Unconventional Families, self-destructive behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 08:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tori_Scribbles/pseuds/Tori_Scribbles
Summary: Eight years into the mosaic quest Eliot reflects on the way he's lived his life and how he wants more for his son.





	Mourn The Years Before I Got Carried Away

**Author's Note:**

> So, I made it a series...  
> Please read the tags. It's all canon typical, nothing more descriptive than what we see Eliot do on screen so, just be warned.
> 
> As always, all the titles come from 'I Wanna Get Better' by The Bleachers

Eliot knew it was too much.

He knew it was a problem.

He’d known it would be a problem from the first time he got high.

The first time he let the world fade around him.

Memories of busses and raised voices drifted away into heightened emotions and pleasure.

Going back in time to see the kids of Fillory’s childhood had affected him more than he thought it would. It affected him more than any of the others. It brought back reminders of angry old men. Of slurs and fists and… attempts to ‘fix’ or to be ‘fixed’.

It wasn’t until he got to Fillory that he realised how much of a crutch the drugs and alcohol was. He knew. Everyone who’d ever met Eliot knew. But he’d never realised how much of a struggle it would be to get through a day without _anything._

Let alone stopping for months, with the added weight of a crown on his head and nothing to ease the burden other than a wife. Which was a whole other… thing.

As soon as he’d arrived at the castle, the first thing he’d done is approach servant about their wine cellar which was severely lacking and what they did have wasn’t often strong enough to get drunk on. All it did was leave a dirty taste in his mouth in more ways than one.

Occasionally he’d get Margo to bring him Adderall, she was the only one who would entertain those requests. But she travelled between worlds less and less and when she did, there was no time to accommodate his habit.

Eliot often envied her.

When they were at Brakebills, he’d always thought they were just as messy as each other. But Margo hadn’t had an issue with a world without narcotics. But she also was allowed other ways of relieving stress. She wasn’t bound by an arranged marriage with archaic terms and conditions.

So, instead, Eliot threw himself into the work. Especially in the days after Alice’s death. He promised her that he was working on the character defects, and he was. And he was grateful that nobody mentioned how much of a cheat it was to do it in a world away from all temptation.

He’d just started to balance it out and then Fen was taken and his world came crashing around him. His daughter was dead. Then she wasn’t and then she was again. It was in those days that Eliot longed for _something_ that couldn’t have.

But Fen needed him, there was a war to fight, a quest to solve and a kingdom to run.

It wasn’t until he and Quentin epically failed at the mosaic task that he had time to think about things and it all hit him like… a bus.

.

When Quentin had run out of his medication, there was an adjustment period. There were days of unintended, destructive and frankly scary anger and there were even scarier days where Quentin would just refuse to get out of bed, much less be of any help to the mosaic. Sometimes Eliot found himself proffering those days, and them immediately hating himself. He could be of use on those days. Like being King again. He had a purpose. He would care for Quentin, try and solve their quest and look after their little home. He’d be too busy and exhausted to get stuck in his own head for any length of time.

It was the days when they were happy that were worse.

Because they would laugh a little too much and then stop. Realising what they were missing and almost simultaneously they’d both slip into the haze of depression. They’d lay in bed together and they’d relish in the comfort that the other could provide. Quentin would often sleep. But Eliot would lay there, missing the way Margo’s fingers felt in his hair, missing the way Fen’s smile shone, missing the blur of that cocktails brought, missing the way that the drugs pulled him away in a blur of ecstasy and late nights.

And nothing that they had could fill that void.

Until it started to.

Quentin and Eliot finally reinvestigate _that_ part of their relationship. It’s different than the one night stand all those months ago. This time they’re both fully sober, and more mature. They start to bring the emotional and physical aspects of their relationship together. Giving them something that neither of them has had before.

Ariella comes along.

Her soft smile reminds him of Fen. The fierce glint in her eyes makes him think of Margo.

Her presence warms a new place in his heart while simultaneously makes another part ache.  

She brings a much needed light to their lives but she refuses to be their sun.

She shows them a new way to live, with Eliot and Quentin and Quentin and Ariella and sometimes Quentin, Ariella and Eliot. And in time, their new little family is born.

Rupert Theodore Coldwater is born on their fourth year and fifty-second day on the quest. A month after Ariella and Quentin get married.

Ariella went into labour in the middle of the night and when Eliot tried to excuse himself to send for her mother, she’d grabbed both him and Quentin’s hands in a bone-crushing grip and told them they “are not going to fucking start leaving her fucking hanging at this fucking point.”

So, with the assistance of several calming charms and a fair bit of panic, the three of them bought their baby boy into the world, their home and hearts.

And things were amazing for four long years until a harsh winter came and Ariella got sick.

It happened fast. What started as a wave of dizziness on Monday, ended with her funeral on Saturday.

Eliot will never forget stepping into their hut and seeing her lying there. He’d known instantly. He’d seen enough dead bodies in his life at this point to know the difference and he’d had to be the one to hold Quentin as he cried and sit with him as they explained to a three year old that he wasn’t going to see his mama again.

They all took it hard, and they all had to take the time to fall apart and slowly find a new normal and it was in those days that Eliot felt himself dropping back into old habits.

.

Eliot tipped the dregs out into his glass, giving a groan of frustration as he only had half a glass. He looked towards the wine rack, about to reach for another bottle, but there wasn’t one. He’d drunk them all.

_“Fuck!”_

The bottle had already left his hand before he’d registered the action. It smashed at the base of the tree and Eliot took a second to stare at the shards in a strange satisfaction. Someone gasped sharply and Eliot’s head whipped around so fast it made the world spin.

Rupert was stood a few steps backwards, staring at Eliot with wide, teary, fear filled eyes. His bottom lip trembled and he turned on his heel and bolted.

“Fuck,” Eliot said again, his head dropping forward.

“What just—” Quentin stepped out of the house, a broken look of confusion that reminded Eliot of the puppy he was way back as a first year. His eyes drifted to the broken bottle on the floor and realisation dawned on him. “Jesus, Eliot did Rupert…?”

“I didn’t know he was there,” Eliot said, his voice heavy with regret. “I thought he was still at Milo’s.”

“So you thought you’d get fucked?” Quentin asked. “Knowing he was due home?”

Eliot sighed. He couldn’t even be mad at Quentin, they’d agreed that their bad days would be kept away from Rupert and so far they’d been successful. Even if it did mean that when Quentin was too depressed to get out of bed, Eliot had had to assure Rupert that his daddy wasn’t sick like his mama had been and that he wasn’t going to lose him too.

“I’ll go and talk to him,” Eliot said, rubbing a hand across his face, “apologise and… explain.”

He pushed himself up from the chair, making to step after Rupert but Quentin caught his arm, his fingers soft and expression softer.

“Wait,” he said, “not like this.”

He twisted his fingers in a complicated, yet incredibly familiar pattern. He ran his thumb across Eliot’s cheek and Eliot felt the alcohol slip as he sobered up almost painfully quickly.

Eliot closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he adjusted to the feeling.

He gave a slight smile when he opened his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I will clear up the mess when I get back. I’ll make things right.”

Quentin reached up, cupping Eliot’s cheek gently and Eliot leant into the touch. His smile more genuine as Quentin reached up, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

“I know you will,” Quentin said, “now go find him before he runs to the next village.”

Eliot nodded, walking off in the direction Rupert ran. He knew where he’d be. There was a fallen tree, near where their portal had been, that had been hollowed out by time that Rupert had turned into a den, and with a few charms, it was pretty safe from the elements. After Ariella had died, Rupert would disappear there more and more. It was warded and close by enough that Rupert could get there on his own.

As Eliot got to the fallen tree, the soft sobs from inside made his heart twist painfully. This was because of him.

His son was crying because he was scared. Scared of him.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for the tears and distrust and crouched down next to the opening.

“Knock, knock,” he said softly, listening as the sobs faltered for a second and further into the tree the bundle of blankets shifted slightly. “Can I come in?”

Sniff.

Eliot sighed.

“I know your upset with me right now and that’s allowed,” he said, “but you know we talk things through. We don’t bottle things up. Do we?” There was another slight shift so Eliot went on. “What is it we do, Ru?”

“Say sorry and talk,” Rupert said, his voice muffled and snotty.

“So, can I come in and say sorry, so we can talk?” Eliot said.

There was a slight pause as Rupert considered it. The pile of blankets shifted, and a mess of blond hair appeared and with the look of confused hurt on his face, he looked more like Quentin than ever.

“Okay.”

Eliot’s lips twitched slightly, and he crawled into the space. Flicking and twisting his fingers in a gesture that bounced soft orbs of light down the tunnel, giving them some light. Eliot leant back against the bark and patted the space next to him. The blankets shifted and like Quentin, Rupert dragged three blankets with him. Sitting opposite Eliot, his eyes fixed on his knees.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot started softly, considering his words carefully for a minute, before just going with what he would have wanted to hear from an adult at that age. “I shouldn’t have been drinking, I shouldn’t have shouted and I definitely shouldn’t have thrown the bottle and scared you. I’m sorry.”

“Are you angry at me?” Rupert asked, his voice small and broken.

“No,” he said instantly and then winced at how harsh that sounded. “No. I’m not angry with you I just—You know how sometimes your daddy just gets sad and angry at the world and he just sleeps a lot? And just isn’t that much fun?”

Rupert finally looked up at him and nodded slightly.

“Well, I get that too sometimes and whereas daddy sleeps I drink. Which isn’t a good thing and that’s the first time I’ve done it in years. But sometimes things just build up and you need an outlet,” Eliot said, watching his sons reactions carefully.

“Why are you so sad today?” Rupert asked and Eliot let out a heavy breath. How did he explain years of addiction and loss to a four year old?

“Because I miss your mama, and I miss your Auntie Margo and neither your or daddy was here to help me,” Eliot said and he hated the way that Rupert’s face softened into something of almost understanding.

“I miss mama too,” he said softly, his bottom lip trembling.

“I know,” Eliot said, “so does your daddy. You know that you can talk to us about it and her whenever you want, right?”

“Even if it makes you sad?” Rupert asked.

“Even if it makes us sad,” Eliot assured him. “Can you forgive me for today?”

Rupert nodded and practically threw himself across the tunnel, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s neck almost painfully tight but Eliot didn’t care. He drew Rupert forward into his lap, arranging the blankets around them as Rupert burrowed into his jacket.

“I need you to know, that no matter what you do, or how angry I am. I will never hurt you,” he said, tilting Rupert’s chin up so their eyes could meet. “That is the most important thing. _You_ are the most important thing. I would never hurt you, no matter how angry I am, okay? And I will never let anyone else hurt you.”

Rupert nodded, sucking on his lip slightly. “I know, Papa.”

Eliot drew him back into his arms with a sigh of relief. “Good,” he murmured.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Ru.”

.

Later that night as Eliot settled into bed, his head resting on Quentin’s shoulder he thought back to his life before. A part of him wished he could go back in time. Take away the bottle from his thirteen year old self and then take the thirteen year old from the toxic house. He wished he could change it all.

He thought about the time loops, thirty-nine other variations of him. He wondered how many of those versions had gotten out sooner. How many had moved the bus? How many had met Logan? He wondered if he’d even recognise himself.

His heart ached for that little boy, curious and so happy, before he discovered the world was such a shitty place. But there was nothing he could do about that.

All he could do was ensure that his son never lost that light inside of him the same way both of his fathers did.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think? I wasn't sure how to end this, so I hope this is okay.  
> I do welcome any suggestions or prompts for this, either here or on my tumblr, but I do make no promises as to actually writing them in any sort of time frame.  
> Find me on [tumbr?](http://purplepingupenguins.tumblr.com/)


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